


"Troubled Water"

by DPPatricks



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-28 11:02:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7637566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DPPatricks/pseuds/DPPatricks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a relaxing evening at home, Starsky and Hutch must endure fraught days they never saw coming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"Troubled Water"

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in response to Dawn’s Birthday, 2017 Challenge on the StarskyHutch911 lj community: write a story in which Paul Simon’s classic “Bridge Over Troubled Water” plays some part. I have withdrawn from the challenge/contest so that I can post this now.
> 
> Sincere thanks to taass.
> 
> Edited and updated 1/3/17; re-edited 9/11/17

“… like a bridge over trou… oubled water, I will ease your mi…iiind.”

The soaring notes slipped into the listening shadows of the greenhouse. Steady rain on the roof reflected them back. 

From his place on the floor by Hutch’s left knee, Starsky shifted a little and looked up at his lover, partner and best friend. Casually, not in the least bit embarrassed, he wiped the tears from his eyes. “Why do you think Paul never sang it with Art?”

Hutch put the guitar aside and threaded his fingers into Starsky’s dense curls. “Maybe because he never wrote a harmony for it?”

“But he could have.” Starsky nestled into Hutch’s hand. 

“Well then,” Hutch mused, “maybe because it was meant to be Artie’s, alone.”

“I’ll bet you’re right! I think I read somewhere that Simon wrote it for Garfunkel after they’d had a terrible fight. It was his apology, and he knew Artie would put soul into the words.”

“He did that.” Hutch settled Starsky’s head against his thigh.

“It’s become almost an anthem, don’t you think?” 

“Definitely. For everyone who feels lost, alone, betrayed.”

“Words to cling to in a hopeless situation,” Starsky added, softly.

“Let’s not get too maudlin here, Starsk.” Hutch tugged gently on a curl. “It’s only a song.”

“But it’s a beautiful song!” Starsky looked up into the jewel-bright blue eyes he adored. “And you sing it as well as Garfunkel ever did.”

“You’re biased.” Hutch leaned down and kissed him lightly. “And I thank you.” He sat up, giving his fistful of hair a slight yank. “Let’s get to bed, babe. We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

“Last day of testimony, we hope.” Starsky stood up only a little stiffly. “If Larson doesn’t go down, I’m gonna hang up my spurs.”

“No you won’t.” Hutch rose and put his arm around Starsky’s waist. “We’ll just go after him again.” With his free hand, he picked up the guitar.

“Never ends, does it?” Starsky led the way into the living room. 

“Nope.” Hutch put his guitar into it’s padded case and leaned the case against the bookshelf. “We can’t think about retiring yet though.” In response to Starsky’s raised eyebrows, he continued, “not until after we hear guilty verdicts on Gunther. And even with the one year anniversary coming up in a few weeks, the trial hasn’t started yet.”

Starsky took his lover’s hand and headed into the bedroom. “Okay. But let’s forget about it for now. ‘Cause I’ve got plans for you, Mr. Troubled Water. I’m gonna lay myself all over you like a bridge.”

Hutch chuckled, nuzzling the back of Starsky’s neck. “Let’s get to it then. I can’t let you keep me awake too long.”

Starsky skinned out of his beach pants, briefs and t-shirt, then turned to watch, lasciviously, while Hutch ditched the last of his clothes. “Something I don’t know about?” 

Hutch wrapped his long arms around Starsky and tumbled them both onto the bed. “I don’t plan to run in the morning, too much risk in the rain. I’m going to the gym early instead. Want to punch out all my aggression before I have to face that slimy defense attorney’s innuendoes and accusations.”

“Take your court clothes with you and I’ll pick you up,” Starsky mumbled into Hutch’s throat.

“That’ll work.” Hutch rubbed their throbbing cocks together.

“So will this.” Starsky reached between their bodies and gripped both straining rods. Hutch moaned and Starsky covered his partner’s soft, willing lips with his hungry mouth.

*******

Starsky parked behind the LTD in the alley the next morning, stepped over the puddles left by the rain and, straightening his sport coat and tie, climbed the metal stairs. The minute he walked into the gym he knew something was wrong. Instead of the usual background cacophony of skipped ropes, punched bags and gloves impacting bodies, there was near silence and tension.

“Whaddya mean he’s not back there?” Frankie yelled at one of the regulars. Starsky thought the guy’s name was Reggie. Six feet tall, ruggedly built and heavily muscled, he was, at the moment, cowering under the shorter man’s outrage. “Did you look everywhere?”

“You know I did, Frankie,” Reggie whined. “He ain’t there! That pretty blue and gold sweat suit of his, that was folded on the bench when I changed, is gone, too.”

One of the other regulars tapped Frankie on the shoulder and gestured to Starsky. Frankie turned, wringing a towel to death in his hands. 

Starsky strode to the distraught gym owner. “Where’s Hutch?”

When Frankie didn’t answer immediately, Starsky knew his gut had been right; something was seriously wrong. He put his hands firmly on the nervous shoulders. “Where’s Hutch, Frankie?”

“He’s gone, Starsky.”

“What do you mean, ‘gone’?” 

“Me ‘n’ Arnie, Jessie, Sam…” Frankie gestured to three sweaty bystanders, “and Reggie, here, were all talkin’ to these two new guys. We didn’t realize they were keepin’ us busy out here, askin’ questions and lookin’ the place over, while their friends musta been takin’ Hutch out the side way.” 

“How long ago?” Starsky was already heading for the locker room.

“About twenty minutes,” Frankie shouted after him.

Starsky barreled through the door. “Hutch!… Huuuuutch!” He checked each of the shower stalls, scanned under the benches and slammed open all the non-padlocked lockers. Striding to the one he knew was Hutch’s, he worked the combination and yanked the door open. On the left hook two coat hangers held Hutch’s tan cords, a light yellow shirt, plus his go-to-court tie and sport coat. Loafers, a pair of socks and folded briefs were on the bottom shelf. Hanging from the right hook, the holstered Python was proof that, thankfully, the perps hadn’t gotten Hutch’s weapon. 

Starsky pulled the Magnum out, closed the locker and clicked the padlock back in place. Wrapping the straps around the holster, he clutched it tightly while running to the exit door. He burst through onto the platform and looked both directions down the side alley. Literally stopped in his tracks, he leaned on the railing and hung his head. “I’ll find you, Hutch. I promise.” Straightening up, he drew a deep breath and went back inside.

“We looked everywhere, Starsky,” Frankie said in a small voice.

Starsky dashed through the main room and out to his car, reached in the window and grabbed the radio mic. “Zebra Three to control. Come in, Mildred.” His voice sounded harsh in his own ears.

“Control here, Starsky,” Mildred replied in her usual, cheerful voice. “What’s up?”

“I need a crime scene team at Frankie’s Gym, behind the theater on Temple Street, right now! Hutch has been kidnapped.”

“You want backup?” Mildred’s voice was half an octave lower and stone cold.

“Babcock and Simmons, if they’re available,” Starsky said, thinking quickly. “We’ve got a bunch of semi-witnesses.”

“I’ll send everyone right way.” 

“Thanks.” Starsky threw the mic on the seat and headed back inside.

*******

Hutch came to with a crashing headache. He didn’t remember being struck on the head, so it was most likely from the chloroform he recalled smelling prior to passing out. In addition, he was shivering. He’d been dripping with sweat in his gym shorts and t-shirt, looking forward to a hot shower, when he’d been waylaid just inside the locker room door. ‘Stupid, Hutchinson,’ he chided himself. ‘Not paying attention.’ 

The clothes were now almost dry but gave no warmth in what was audibly a moving vehicle. The sounds of wet streets and windshield wipers told him the rain hadn’t stopped here. Wherever ‘here’ was.

He couldn’t see anything because he was blindfolded. What felt like tape was across his mouth, his wrists were bound behind him and his feet were tied. Except for the trembling and headache, he was in great shape. Oh, and the nausea, of course. He hoped someone would remove the tape soon.

The vehicle made a right turn, slowed and stopped. What sounded like the front passenger door was opened and slammed closed. A side door was slid open and hard hands grabbed Hutch, flipping him roughly onto his back. He was dragged out of what was probably some sort of van and dumped onto hard, very wet ground. Rain quickly soaked his thin coverings, making him colder.

A second vehicle door, probably the driver’s, was opened and quickly shut. Feet walked near, splashing additional water. More bodies scrambled out of the back of the van, a few shoes actually stepping on his arms and ankles. The van’s door was pulled closed with a clang.

Somewhere close by a vicious-sounding dog was barking. ‘Could use some help here, pooch,’ Hutch thought, grimly. ‘Make yourself useful, why doncha? Come over here and bite these guys for me.’

Hands grabbed Hutch’s arms again, spinning him around and adding to his queasiness. He struggled, trying to get words out from behind the binding over his mouth. “Mmmm onna me mmick!”

One of the bad guys must have understood because the tape was ripped off Hutch’s mouth seconds before some of his stomach contents made their precipitous appearance.”

Sounds of rapid scuffling followed. “Shit! Why’d ya let ‘im puke on my boots!”

“Maybe if you’d taken it easier getting him out of the van,” another, stronger voice replied, “his system wouldn’t have reacted like that.”

“Oh, it’s my fault?” the first voice demanded. “Who died and made you God?”

“You wanted in on the deal,” voice number two growled. “So you’ll keep your mouth shut and do as you’re told. You can be replaced.”

Hutch heard a switchblade being flicked open a moment before the bindings around his ankles were cut. Hauled to his feet, he attempted to steady himself but, blind, disoriented and still nauseous, he would have fallen if two pairs of hands hadn’t held his arms in tight grips. His mouth tasted vile and he wasn’t sure his stomach was through emptying itself. “I’m afraid it’s not over,” he said, as calmly as possible. “I could use a bathroom.”

“Get him in the house,” the second voice ordered.

*******

The crime scene techs found countless fingerprints, plus suspiciously wiped areas around door jambs and knobs, in their scouring of the gym and locker room. It would probably take weeks to check them against members. Starsky dogged their footsteps and they managed to refrain from cussing him out because they knew his partner was missing. 

Reynolds, the chief tech, handed Starsky a plastic evidence bag containing a folded cloth. “Chloroform.”

Starsky sniffed through the still-open end of the bag and shivered. “This stuff makes you sick after you come to, doesn’t it?” 

“It can.”

“I hope Hutch isn’t gagged. He could choke to death.” Starsky was feeling more than a little sick himself.

“It’s been known to happen,” Reynolds admitted.

Starsky handed the article back and turned away.

Frankie approached timidly. “I’m real sorry, Starsky.” 

“I guess you’d have told me already but I gotta ask anyway,” Starsky said. “Did the guys who were keeping you busy give their names by any chance?” 

Frankie shook his head. “Told me they’d come back later and fill out the applications.”

“‘Course they would,” Starsky muttered. “You’ve given descriptions to the other detectives, right?”

“Sure, Starsky.” Frankie gestured around. “We all have.”

“Were they wearing gloves? Or could some of the fingerprints be theirs?”

Again, Frankie shook his head. “Naw, no gloves. But I didn’t see ‘em touch nothin’ out here. Maybe in the locker room?”

“Maybe.” Starsky knew there was little hope in his voice.

“If there’s anything I can do, you gotta lemme know, okay?”

“Sure, Frankie.” Starsky moved over to Babcock, who was finishing up with Reggie. 

Babcock closed his notebook and nodded to the fighter. “Thanks, Mr. FitzWalter.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t tell ya anything more definite, Detective.” With a sorrowful look at Starsky, he walked away. 

“What?” Starsky demanded.

“Old white panel van.” Babcock checked his notes. “No make or model. Reggie thinks it had a California plate but he didn’t look closely.” He slapped the notebook closed. “Just an old van in the alley. Reggie didn’t think anything of it. DMV’ll probably give us a list of five thousand vehicles.”

“At least. You get anything else? Descriptions?”

“All the witnesses agree that the guy who seemed to be the leader of the two out here had a really ruddy complexion, as if he had high blood pressure or was awful angry. Tall, brown hair in a pony tail. Clean shaven, brown eyes.” Babcock shrugged in obvious futility. “The other one yawned all the time.”

“That’s something at least,” Starsky said. “Ring any bells with you?”

“Nope. But we’ll check it. You got anything?” 

“More prints in the locker room than you can shake a stick at. Nothing in the alley. No convenient paint scrapings or tread marks. Just a small puddle of motor oil left there after the rain stopped. Nelson’s pretty sure it’s a common generic brand but he’ll run tests anyway.”

“Simmons and I have snitches in this area, Starsky. We’ll find out if they’ve heard any rumors. Or saw anything.”

“Thanks.” Starsky turned and headed out.

*******

Hutch was manhandled up three wooden steps, through a doorway, down what sounded like a hall, and ultimately into a bathroom, if the smell was any indication. His blindfold was yanked off and his hands cut free. With all the movement and jostling, he was glad it hadn’t taken any longer to get here. Dropping to his knees, the remainder of his light breakfast joined the scum and rust rings in the john. 

Footsteps retreated. Out of the corner of his eye, Hutch saw one set of work boots had remained. As if reading his thoughts, rough words cascaded over him. “Don’t even think about it, Hutchinson! I got five guys with me. You ain’t gettin’ past all of us.” His blue and gold sweat suit was tossed on the floor. “When you’re finished, put those on. The furnace in this place ain’t much good.”

Hutch rested his viciously aching head on the cool, crusted porcelain rim of the toilet. Unbidden, he heard himself singing only the night before. ‘When times get rough, and friends just can’t be found, like a bridge over troubled water, I will lay me down,’ swept soothingly through his mind. He closed his eyes, realizing he didn’t feel quite so alone.

*******

Starsky pounded on the front door of The Pits until Huggy Bear opened up. 

Huggy’s expression was angry but, when he saw the look on Starsky’s face, he swallowed whatever retort he’d been about to make. Without a word, he let Starsky in, waited a second, undoubtedly expecting Hutch to follow. When that didn’t happen, Huggy sucked in a breath and locked the door again. Leading the way to the bar, Huggy went behind it, poured two cups of coffee from a fresh-smelling pot, slid one across, and stared at Starsky.

“Hutch has been kidnapped.” Starsky forced the words through clenched teeth. “What have you heard?”

“Not a word, Starsky. I swear.” 

Starsky read nothing but shock and sincerity in his friend’s eyes and knew Huggy would never lie about something like this. Nodding, he drilled a no-nonsense look at the Bear. “Can you find out for me?”

“‘Course I will! Short ‘n’ sweet, tell me what happened.” 

*******

Without moving a muscle, Hutch dragged his mind out of its slightly fogged state. He hadn’t retched for a few minutes but didn’t want the clown standing guard at the bathroom door to know he was aware of much. He stayed on his knees, his arms wrapped around the bowl of the commode as if he couldn’t move. His head was turned away from the door, his cheek on the disgusting rim. Listening to the Second Voice in another room, he concentrated on every word.

“We got him…. Like clockwork…. Shit! Whaddya mean things aren’t goin’ smooth at the other end? You said they were ready. Told me to take him as soon as I got the chance. Well, I got him! Now, what do I do with him?.... How long? A few days? A week?…. No! I already told you. No killing. I won’t take the needle for anybody, no matter how important somebody thinks he is.… Yeah, I understand…. Okay, we’ll keep him…. But the price just went up. It’s ten grand a week now. I’ll be at the drop in the morning, usual time. And the money better be there. Or one pissed off cop, only slightly the worse for wear, is gonna be dumped where he’ll be found right away. My guys and I’ll be outta here!…. You better believe I mean it, sucker. Ten Gs, tomorrow morning.” The phone was slammed onto its cradle. Heavy footsteps marched to the bathroom door. “You though yet?”

Hutch raised his head but didn’t look at his captor. “Maybe,” he rasped, trying to sound weaker and sicker than he was. Not too difficult. The blue pants and jacket were kicked closer to him.

“Put those on, you’re about to meet your new accommodations.”

Hutch stood up and leaned against the wall; any surface was better than sitting on the filthy toilet. Overplaying his faintness a bit, he pulled his favorite fleece pants on over his now-dry shorts before stuffing his arms through the sleeves of the jacket. When he zipped it up the soft warmth was a balm.

The bearer of the Second Voice, the one he’d heard on the phone, walked ahead while one of the goons pulled Hutch roughly from the bathroom into a living room. The rest of the gang was guarding an archway that likely led to the house’s front door, plus each of the windows. Drapes were closed but the fabric was so old and shredded from sun rot the thugs didn’t have to move them in order to watch the street. 

Probably furnished from some second rate thrift shop, the main seating was a couch that might have been new in FDR’s first term. Tables of no discernable style sat at either end, one of them holding a telephone. Hutch gratefully noted that it was a touch-tone. If he had the chance to get to it, he wouldn’t have to worry about the noise of a rotary-dial. An arm chair that would have been rejected by the Salvation Army sat next to the front window. A boarded up fireplace occupied the back corner of the room.

The scarred, stained coffee table in front of the couch held Hutch’s wallet, his ID folder, keys and the loose change he’d had in his pocket. 

The last item in the room, across from the couch, was a wire kennel. It appeared to be about three feet long by two feet wide, and perhaps twenty-four inches high. Probably made for a medium sized dog, Hutch knew it would be his prison. Instinctively stepping away from it, he was struck on the head and fell, unconscious before he hit the floor.

*******

Starsky paced Captain Dobey’s office. Babcock and Simmons stood on either side of the squad room door. 

Dobey sat behind his desk, his fingers laced on top of a stack of folders, visibly attempting to remain calm. “Every officer that’s not actively working a case is on the search, Starsky.”

“And all the CIs have their ears to the ground,” Simmons added.

“Something’ll turn,” Babcock said.

“It’s been ten _hours_!” Starsky’s voice cracked on the final word. “There’s nothing in our current cases that warrants this, Cap.” Starsky stopped in front of the desk. “Not even Larson.”

“I was wondering when you’d think about him,” said Dobey.

“What happened today?” Starsky asked. “Hutch was supposed to testify.”

“As soon as word got out that he was missing, the judge granted a continuance,” Dobey told him.

“That’s good. We can --”

Dobey held up a hand, interrupting. “Larson made a statement, through his mouthpiece. Says he had nothing to do with the disappearance. It’s just a coincidence that Hutch was the main witness against him.” 

Starsky began pacing again. “Coincidence.” 

“There’s still you, Starsky,” Simmons pointed out. “You’ll be able to put him away.”

“Maybe. Wouldn’t be as strong a case though. I wasn’t the one that caught him with the drugs in his hot little hands. Hutch was.”

“As soon as we find your partner,” Dobey said, “the judge will reinstate and you two will make Larson sorry he ever pulled this stunt.”

Starsky stood still and looked at his captain, uncertain. “I don’t know, Cap. It doesn’t feel right. I mean…” He glanced at Simmons and Babcock. “I don’t think Larson has this kind of smarts. Or connections. He’s a small time drug dealer. How did he set this up, and make it happen, from jail?”

“What are you thinking, Starsky?” Babcock asked. “If not Larson, who?”

“I wish I _knew_!” Starsky’s frustration and fear were plain in his ragged voice. “Minnie helped me go through all our current and recent files. Hours worth of searching and nothing popped!”

“We’ll keep working our contacts,” Simmons said.

“If I’m right, and it’s not Larson,” Starsky addressed everyone in the room, “what do they _want_? Why hasn’t someone called?” He began pacing again.

“Maybe they will.” Babcock reached for Starsky’s arm but missed. “And if they do, we need to have tracing equipment on your home phone.”

Starsky spun to him. “Do it!” He pulled out his keys and separated the one for his apartment. “Here, get it ready as soon as you can.” He looked back at Dobey. “If they call the squad room, we can trace it, right, Cap’n?”

“You know we can.”

“Okay, the minute…” Starsky stared at his fellow detectives and his captain, at a loss for words. “I’ll be at Huggy’s.”

*******

If possible, Hutch felt worse than the first time he’d regained consciousness. He had the most intense headache he’d ever experienced. He knew that being clubbed, in addition to chloroformed, could do bad things to brain cells. Smothering a groan, he tried to roll over but found movement was severely limited. His body had been crammed into the cage. Curled on his right side, his knees were drawn up almost to his chin, his arms akimbo around his head and chest. The bastards had probably stood the kennel on end and dropped him into it. Taking as deep a breath as he could manage, he allowed the soft words in his mind to soothe him. ‘… like a bridge over troubled water…’ 

“I think he’s awake,” someone said. 

Carefully, Hutch reconfigured his arms and levered himself onto his right elbow. Six men were standing and sitting around the room. 

“Get him a glass of water,” said the man sitting on the couch; the voice of the man Hutch had heard on the phone. He’d be tall when he stood up, was broad shouldered and had a very flushed complexion. He didn’t appear to be angry so Hutch assumed it was his natural coloring. Thinning long brown hair was pulled into a pony tail and dark brown eyes were resolute.

“Whaddya lookin’ at me for?” the man leaning negligently in a doorway that probably led to the back of the house, snarled.

“You’re the closest,” Red snapped.

Snarly stalked out. There was the sound of running water, most likely from the kitchen, before he returned with a glassful. Red got up, took the glass and approached the cage. Taking a key out of his pocket and unlocking the cheap padlock, he opened the door barely wide enough to pass the tumbler through and closed it again.

Hutch levered himself a little higher and gratefully drank every drop. If they were willing to let him drink once in a while, maybe what he’d overheard was true and Red Face wasn’t a killer.

When the glass was empty, Red took it back before relocking the door. 

“What do you want?” Hutch kept his voice as level as possible.

“Nothin’, cop.” Red turned his back dismissively. 

The other five snickered. 

“Break out the fodder, Ca --”

“Shut up!” Red shouted, cutting across the word. “No names! How many times do I have to repeat myself before you get it through your thick skulls?” He stared at each of them. “I swear I’ll beat the tar outta the next one of you that forgets!” He headed in the direction of what Hutch presumed was the kitchen. “I’ll heat up dinner myself.”

Hutch hated the processed mulch that was foisted on people in the form of frozen meals but, since his body thought it should be hungry, the smell was almost enticing. He didn’t think his stomach would tolerate such fare though, even if it was offered. It wasn’t.

Watching the men in the small dining room, Hutch matched voices with faces and hoped to overhear something that would tell him who had ordered his abduction. Regrettably, all he heard was arguments about why the Dodgers weren’t doing any better than they were, why Darlin’ Dinah’s most recent Triple X movie had been such a turkey, and what a loser King Dusty had turned out to be in yesterday’s fifth race. 

The conversation did, however, give Hutch a chance to nickname each of his captors. Red seemed to be the acknowledged leader and Snarly had already named himself. Hutch dubbed the others Sleazy, Sleepy, Greasy, and Grumpy. This last one was the guy whose boots he’d thrown up on that morning. Grumpy was a very tall, weight-lifter-muscled tough guy with buzz cut hair and nasty brown eyes. He had made a point of walking past the cage several times while their food was heating. Each time, he had kicked a corner, seeming to enjoy knowing it jarred Hutch’s aching head.

Sleazy looked as if he would be right at home consorting with gutter creatures. Greasy probably owned stock in a pomade brand, his hair was so coated with the thick goo. Sleepy nodded off during dinner, snoring until Sleazy elbowed him. 

After dinner, the plastic trays and utensils were thrown in the trash and Red got a deck of cards and a rack of poker chips out of the buffet. Sleazy brought a fistful of beer bottles from the kitchen while Sleepy brought a couple of bags of chips.

Hutch dozed while the men played, drank, cussed and pushed match sticks back and forth. As an evening’s entertainment Hutch thought it was nothing to write home about. Eventually, with most of the sticks in front of Red and Grumpy, the game broke up and the six men filed back into the living room. Red nailed Snarly with a deadly look. “You drew first night’s watch and you’d better stay awake.”

“If you guarantee I can sleep all day tomorrow, I swear I won’t even close my eyes.”

Red nodded. “That’s the deal.”

One by one, five of them left the room. Hutch heard footsteps climbing a staircase. Snarly clomped to the arm chair by the front window and sank into it. He stretched his legs out and settled but kept his wide-awake eyes on Hutch.

Curling himself around his knees Hutch got as comfortable as possible and tried to nod off. If he wasn’t going to be able to glean information from their conversations, he would sleep whenever he was allowed. 

*******

“Nothin’, Starsky.” Huggy shook his head. “And I’ve asked everybody I can think of.” He uncapped a beer and placed it on the bar. Everyone in the busy establishment was giving them a wide birth. 

Starsky took a long drink. “Somebody has to know something, Hug.”

“I agree. And I’ll keep askin’. Nobody’s givin’ up. It’s early days yet, m’ brother. We’ll find him.”

Starsky stared at his friend. “We have to.” His eyes filled with tears and he didn’t fight them. “I can’t breathe.… I feel like I can’t fucking breathe.”

Huggy put a hand on his arm. “I know how it is with you two.”

Starsky blinked. Huggy knew?

“I ain’t blind. Probably nobody else sees it but me.”

“What am I gonna do, Hug?” 

“Find him.” Huggy squeezed his arm in total support.

*******

When Starsky got to his apartment, worn out and bleary-eyed, Babcock and Simmons were finishing setting up the tracing equipment. Starsky handed Babcock a large brown bag. “Brought you a couple of burgers and fries.”

“Thanks, Starsky.” Babcock opened the bag and inhaled the wonderful aroma. “We were just thinkin’ of calling out for a pizza.”

Simmons made the last equipment connection. “We’re going to trade off with Walsh and Reece.” He accepted his share of the food. 

“Twelve hours on, twelve off,” Babcock added. “Six to six. If a call comes through one of us will start the trace immediately. Even if you’re not here to answer.”

“Appreciate it, fellas. I’ll bring you a sleeping bag, some blankets and pillows. Draw straws for the couch. It’s not comfortable but probably better than the floor.” He headed into the bedroom. A minute later, he came out and tossed everything on the peacock chair.

“We’ll get him back, Starsky,” Simmons said.

“You bet,” Babcock added.

“I know you guys remember when Hutch and I played our stupid game.” Starsky’s voice was flat, empty. “Somehow, this feels worse.” He took his jacket and holster off, hanging them on the hall tree by the front door. 

Babcock unrolled the sleeping bag and spread it on the floor next to the coffee table. “Try to get some sleep, Starsky. Maybe something will turn up by morning.” 

“Hold onto that positive attitude, Babcock.” Starsky headed for the bedroom. “There’s clean towels in the bathroom closet.” 

*******

Every time Hutch woke up during the night, shivering, aching and cramped, the soft echoes of the song were thrumming in his mind. They were a salve to his nerves. He knew Starsky would be searching for him, would never stop. And he had every faith that his partner would find him. ‘When you’re weary, feelin’ small…’

*******

Starsky rolled onto his side, curling an arm around the adjacent pillow. He brushed his cheek against the soft cotton. ‘When tears are in your eyes, I will dry them all….’ He woke up with his face and pillow damp. Strangely, he wasn’t as scared as he had been when he’d gone to sleep. Hutch was waiting for him. He put his head down and burrowed into the wet comfort. 

*******

Hutch woke up with a smile on his haggard face. Daylight was sifting through the curtains’ slits.

“What’s so funny, cop?” 

Hutch lifted his head and stared into Snarly’s hard eyes. During the night, every time he’d been awake, he’d run the faces of the six men through his mental mug book. He knew he’d never seen any of them before but he’d sure as hell remember them now. “Nothing you’d find interesting. Just the words of a song.”

Pairs of heavy footsteps clomped down the stairs, Red leading the way into the room. He nodded to Snarly who shoved past the others and thundered up the steps. “Wake me when breakfast gets here.” 

Red stared at Hutch for a while, clearly unhappy.

“What’s the matter, Red?” Hutch kept his voice calm. “You look as if you didn’t get much sleep.” He shifted around a little for a better view of the Leader.

“Shut up!” Red unlocked the cage and motioned to Grumpy and Sleazy. “Get him outta there and take him to the bathroom.” He stepped back.

Grumpy grabbed Hutch’s wrists and, none too gently, pulled him out of the enclosure while Sleazy held the kennel in place. With one man gripping each of his arms, Hutch was marched to the facility he’d grown to know and loathe the day before. 

“Door stays open,” Grumpy growled. “Do your business quick!”

Gratefully, Hutch pushed his sweats and shorts down and relieved himself. Unfortunately, it didn’t feel like his bowels were going to cooperate so, after a minute, he pulled both garments up and turned to his guards. “When’s the maid due, fellas? This place reeks!” 

Grumpy hauled him out of the room, his huge fingers digging into Hutch’s upper arm. Back in front of his prison, Hutch knew that if he crawled in head first, he might not be able to turn around. Therefore, as casually as possible, he got down on the floor and eased inside, feet first. Red closed and locked the door.

“The usual from Jack-In-The-Box?” Red asked his cronies. 

“I’ll have a Breakfast Jack,” Hutch said.

“You’ll have a slice of bread and a glass of water.” Red’s voice was tight. “This ain’t no Holiday Inn!” Glaring at his cohorts, he pointed at Hutch. “Make sure he’s never alone in the room! I’m goin’ to pick up our money, then the food. Be back in an hour or so.”

After Red left, nobody moved until the sound of the van had faded and the dog had quit its frenzied barking. Grumpy was the first to stir. “I’m gonna kill that crazy mutt one o’ these days.” He kicked the cage solidly on his way past and slouched into the arm chair. “I’m sick of the yappin’!”

“Hell, that thing’s the best lookout we could have,” Sleazy said. “Let’s us know whenever anybody’s movin’ on the street.”

Grumpy stared at his buddy, obviously not the least bit fond of being corrected. “I guess.”

Sleazy, Sleepy and Greasy left the room.

Hutch had gone into the kennel so that he could lie on his left side. Knowing he would be in this confined space for the foreseeable future, he wanted to vary his position as often as possible. Luckily, we was facing Grumpy and the front window. The angry man had turned out to be his main antagonist and Hutch decided to study him whenever he had the chance.

*******

Starsky paced Dobey’s office. Babcock, Simmons, and two other plain clothes detectives hugged the walls. Dobey sat as calmly as possible behind his desk.

“Somebody in an old white van’s been stalking Hutch,” Starsky told them. “Two of Helene’s employees have seen it at various times over the past few weeks.”

“And nobody said anything?” Simmons asked.

Starsky looked at him, resigned. “Who ever looks closely at an old white van, Simmons? Or even thinks about having seen it until their memories are triggered? There are thousands of them in this town! We found that out from the DMV run.” He threw his hands up in frustration. “Hell! _I_ didn’t notice it either, and I _must_ have seen it!”

“We’re eliminating all the ones registered to people over sixty as a start,” Babcock told Dobey. “But it’s still going to take weeks.”

“We don’t _have_ weeks!” Starsky renewed his pacing.

Dobey got up, drew a cup of water from the cooler and handed it to Starsky. “Take it easy. Getting mad at us isn’t going to help Hutch.”

“I know.” Starsky took the cup, nodded his thanks, and drank. 

Dobey went back behind his desk. “Now, what about everybody’s snitches?” He looked at Starsky. “Huggy?”

“He’s got his own informants talking to all _their_ informants. So far, nothing!”

“It’s as if they grabbed Hutch and vanished,” Babcock said. 

“Not possible!” Simmons’ statement was emphatic. “Somebody saw something. Somebody knows something.”

“Well, get out there and find that somebody,” Dobey roared, finally venting his rage.

*******

Hutch ate his single slice of stale bread slowly and made the glass of water last as long as possible. 

The gang was enjoying their breakfast sandwiches and hash brown patties in the dining room. Except for Grumpy, who was eating his from the arm chair, his glowering eyes fastened on the cage. Hutch wondered what, besides vomiting on the man’s shoes, he’d ever done to the big guy. 

Nicknames, voices and detailed descriptions were all Hutch had going for him. But he was determined to remember every speck of information. Once Starsky found him, they’d put the whole gang away for a long time.

*******

Two days later, on the fourth morning of his captivity, Hutch was struggling to maintain his optimism. Desperately hungry and thirsty, he knew the two slices of bread and two glasses of water he was given each day weren’t going to enable him to keep up his strength for very long. His captors were obviously aware of the affects of near dehydration, starvation, and confinement. Limiting prisoners to the proverbial bread and water was an excellent way, Hutch now realized, of keeping them in line.

He slept as much as possible, running the words of the beloved song round and around in his mind, knowing Starsky was searching for him. While falling asleep, he tried to send the comfort back to his partner, to ease as much of Starsky’s pain and fear as possible. 

He’d overslept this morning, though. Nobody had roused him to take a potty break before breakfast, as he’d been allowed to each of the previous days. Although his bladder had only had about sixteen ounces of liquid to process, it was getting uncomfortable after more than twenty-four hours of non-relief. His bowels also felt as if they finally wanted to be emptied. 

Hutch looked at Sleepy, snoring in the arm chair. The Drowsy One had taken Sleazy’s place when he’d come downstairs, so that the overnight watchman could go up and catch some zzzzzs. Nobody else in the house seemed to be awake yet. Or else had gone out earlier. Maybe he’d been too worn out to notice.

“Hey,” Hutch called, softly. He didn’t want to attract unwanted attention.

Sleepy jerked awake, sitting up quickly. “Wha’?” He looked around for the source of the voice. 

“Just me,” Hutch said. “Could you let me out, please? I need to use the bathroom.”

Sleepy leaned back again. “Not ‘til Ma… uh, not while the boss ain’t here. He had to go do some things.”

“Please?” Hutch repeated. “I’m going to wet myself, if you don’t.”

Sleepy shook his head. “Can’t. Only two keys and I ain’t got one.”

“Could you ask whoever has the other one then?” 

“I never talk to him if I can help it! Go back to sleep.” Sleepy closed his eyes and was soon snoring again.

Hutch mentally shrugged. Using meditation techniques to stop thinking about his discomfort, he tried to drift off. He’d never pissed himself in his life and didn’t want to start today.

*******

Starsky walked, heavy-footed, past Walsh and Reece, who were settling in for their daytime shift. “I’m in the Torino, guys.” He shrugged into his holster and jacket. “Then at The Pits.” He didn’t wait for a reply.

Driving downtown, he was on auto-pilot, the powerful car practically driving itself. Hutch wasn’t dead! Starsky knew that in his heart. He didn’t delude himself into thinking it wasn’t a possibility, it was just something he refused to believe! The connection to his best friend, his lover, his life partner, was still intact. If Hutch were dead, Starsky would know it; he’d feel emptiness. He’d told Huggy he couldn’t breathe but that wasn’t quite true. Starsky was still breathing, however raggedly and shallowly, which meant that Hutch was alive!

Parking in front of The Pits, he was a little surprised to find the front door unlocked. Huggy already had a pot of coffee brewed and was on the phone behind the bar. Huggy waved him to the machine. 

Starsky poured himself a mug before moving around and sitting on a stool. 

Hanging up, Huggy poured a mug for himself and leaned on the bar. “Get any sleep at all?” 

Starsky shrugged. “A little. I guess.”

“Take a pill tonight, why doncha? You ain’t gonna be no good to Hutch, once we find him, if you’re out on your feet.”

“I’ll sleep when he’s back, Hug.” Starsky gestured toward the phone. “Who was that?”

“My cousin, Stanley.” Huggy took a sip of coffee. “He’s got a cousin who lives over near that run down area around Sixth.”

“Okay.” Starsky drank and waited as patiently as he could.

“Well, this cousin’s cousin has heard about the old white van we’re lookin’ for. He tells Stanley that he’s seen a vehicle like that a few times lately.”

Starsky sat up and sucked in a breath. “Where?” 

Huggy straightened. “Don’t get too excited, Starsky. It’s third hand and I got no faith in it yet. Stanley said this cousin is always claimin’ to know stuff he don’t, provide stuff he don’t have.”

“I need to talk to him, Hug.”

“I know,” said The Bear. “Stanley’ll bring him around at noon. The guy supposedly works on a loading dock and can’t get away before that.”

“I’ll be here!” Starsky gulped the rest of his caffeine breakfast and dashed out the door.

*******

Unfortunately for Hutch and his bladder, Red didn’t come back in time. Castigating himself for not being able to hold out, he sighed when he felt warm wetness soak his shorts and pants. ‘Damn! My favorite sweats!’ 

Not long afterward, Grumpy walked through the room, kicking the cage, as usual. Instead of continuing though, he stopped. “What’s that smell?” 

Sleepy woke up abruptly. “Wha’?”

“Did you piss yourself?” Grumpy demanded.

Sleepy pointed at Hutch. “He told me hours ago he needed to pee. I said he had to hold it.”

“Well, he didn’t!” Grumpy dug a key out of his pocket and unlocked the cage. By this time Greasy and Snarly had come into the room. Grumpy yanked Hutch out of the kennel and shook him like a rag doll, holding him right off the floor. Gravity and weakness did the rest. Hutch’s bladder fully emptied, running down onto already stained boots.

“ _Damn you_!” Grumpy threw Hutch into the arms of his buddies, who struggled to stay upright with their sudden burden. 

Outside, the dog began to bark, clearly not a fan of raised, angry voices. 

“Now look what he’s done!” Grumpy stared down at his soiled footwear. “I could _kill_ you!” He grabbed for Hutch’s left arm but got fingers in his huge paw instead. Spinning in a rage, screaming inarticulately, he flung Hutch in an arc across the room, toward the corner fireplace. 

Hutch gasped when intense, searing pain tore through his left hand. Slamming into the barricade and sliding to the floor, his bowels loosened. If he hadn’t been in such agony, he might have died of mortification. As it was, he clutched the mangled fingers to his chest and stifled a moan.

Red chose that moment to arrive. “Christ!” He closed the front door, muting the incessant barking before he strode into the room. “I could hear you all the way down the block. What the fuck’s goin’ on?” He glared at each member of his supposed gang.

Grumpy pointed at Hutch. “First he pissed himself in the cage. Now he’s taken a dump!”

Red surveyed the room and everyone in it. 

Hutch could tell the man was doing his best to contain his fury but he wasn’t sure at which of them it was directed. Was it him, for being unable to control his bodily functions? Or Grumpy, for giving in to his anger? 

Red stuck a fist in Grumpy’s chest. “Get the duffle out of the hall closet. There’s an old pair of dungarees in it.” When Grumpy didn’t move right away, Red pushed him. “Go!”

The others stood around uncomfortably, not wanting to add to the already flammable atmosphere while Grumpy shuffled sullenly through the archway. He came back dragging a large black gear bag. Unzipping it, the specified garment was right on top.

Red gestured toward Hutch. “Get him cleaned up and help him put those on.”

“Goddamn if I will,” Grumpy shot back. “He pissed and shit himself, he can clean himself up!”

“You’ll do as you’re told,” Red snarled. “And, since it looks like you’ve busted his hand, I’m assigning you to take care of whatever he needs from now on!”

“Oh, no.” Grumpy began backing away. “I won’t --”

“You will,” said The Boss, in a very threatening voice. “Or you’ll be gone. I swear to God you’ve given me as much trouble as I intend to take.” He cast an almost apologetic look at Hutch before turning back to Grumpy. “Clean out that cage, too, before you put him back inside.”

Red lowered his voice and looked at Snarly. “Breakfast’s in the van.”

Snarly hurried out the door, setting off another round of canine vocalizing.

Red shoved Grumpy toward Hutch. “When he and the kennel are clean, give him his slice of bread and glass of water. You can eat after.” He stormed out of the room. 

Sitting in his own filth, wracked by the pain in his rapidly swelling fingers, Hutch didn’t know if the soothing words he badly needed would help but he tried to hear them. ‘… and pain is all around… like a bridge… ’

*******

Starsky sat across from a wiry little man who looked as if he might try to bolt at any moment. Huggy’s cousin, Stanley, occupied the outside of the bench, effectively blocking escape. Huggy was next to Starsky. All had cups of coffee in front of them. Starsky leaned toward the squirrelly informer, using his most persuasive non-threatening persona. “Where, exactly, did you see the van, Phil?”

“I’m not sure anymore,” Phil said.

“You told Stanley that you’d seen it several times over the past few weeks, around where you live.” Starsky casually drank coffee. “Isn’t that right?”

“Well, yeah… I guess.” The cup shook in Phil’s hands.

“Where?” Starsky asked, calmly.

“Lotsa streets near the place I’m stayin’,” Phil explained. “Might not have been the same vehicle every time though. Ya know?” He looked at his inquisitors. “There’s thousands of ‘em, ain’t there?”

“You were pretty sure when you told Stanley,” Starsky pointed out. “Why’re you changing your tune now?”

“‘Cause what if I’m wrong? Cops hassling’ people in my neighborhood’s gonna make it hard for me.”

“How would they know you’ve talked to us, Phil?” Starsky kept his voice reasonable.

“I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ else.” Phil closed his mouth tightly.

“What’s your address,” Starsky asked.

Phil pouted, mute.

“I’ll give it to you.” Stanley cast a disgusted look at his cousin.

*******

Hutch hurt as badly as the time the trunk of his car had exploded. He’d been outside a hospital that day though, and help had come almost immediately. Help in the way of pain medication, disinfecting, stitching and splinting. This was completely different. 

Grumpy did nothing except stand in the bathroom doorway, glaring. One-handedly, Hutch had been forced to clean up the mess on the hearth and the liquid in the cage before being allowed to wash and dry himself with the cleanest towels left. Then he pulled on the scratchy, grubby denims.

Sleepy brought a bottle of Tylenol down from upstairs and handed it wordlessly to Grumpy.

Grudgingly, the unhappy man gave Hutch two with his water. Hutch forced himself to eat the slice of bread afterward, hoping it would all stay down.

Back in his cell, Hutch curled around his injured hand. The first two fingers were as big as sausages but they weren’t straight. Bones could very well be broken and several joints dislocated. It felt as if a family of beavers was chewing on the inflamed digits. He used every meditation technique he knew of in order to get around, past and through the agony. ‘…I will ease your mi..iii..iiind.’

*******

For two days, Starsky and every off-duty uniform cruised a twenty square block section of downtown Bay City, searching for an old white van. The officers reported numerous vehicles that fit the broad description and Starsky sped to each one. However, when owners and neighbors were interviewed, none of them turned out to be the correct one. The searching and questioning continued.

*******

Without moving the curtains, Snarly stared through the slits. “Hey, Boss! We got a couple of cops in a patrol car checkin’ out the van!”

Red hurried from the back of the house. Outside, the dog was barking ferociously. 

Motioning through the window, Snarly smirked. “Good thing you had it painted.”

Hutch’s heart sank. The department evidently had a description of the kidnap vehicle and everyone was looking for it. Only now, probably as the result of Red’s lengthy absence the other morning, they were searching for the wrong color.

*******

Before and after his hours of chasing down reports of vehicles, Starsky ghosted around the station, his replies to questions monosyllabic. He assured people he was eating and sleeping but he knew they didn’t believe him. He didn’t believe himself. He simply continued to function the best he could until he found Hutch. Until he found Hutch. 

*******

On the sixth day of his imprisonment, Hutch crawled, head first, into the cage after being allowed to use the john and eating his ‘breakfast.’ He didn’t think he could stand seeing his tormentors all day.

Trying to find a reasonably comfortable position, he noticed a loose end of wire in the lower back corner of the mesh covering the bottom half of his enclosure. Slowly, trying not to draw attention, he traced the path of the wire and began to unweave it. It was difficult and his hand got sore after a while. He stopped and rested, knowing bloody right hand fingers would be noticed.

Periodically all day, hunched in the corner of his cage as if sleeping, Hutch worked at the task. By evening, while more TV dinners were heating, he had about three inches loose and was very pleased with himself. Placing the wire back more or less where it had been, he managed to get turned around and was facing outward when Grumpy brought his bread and water. 

That night he slept as well as his throbbing hand allowed. He had a plan: he would wait until the following night, when Sleepy would be the watchman. He’d work his wire into the cheap lock, get out of his cage and call Starsky. None of the details was in place yet, but damn if he didn’t feel almost hopeful. 

*******

Six days and Starsky knew he couldn’t last too much longer the way he was going. He’d been running on anger and unwavering purpose but both were wearing thin. He accepted Edith Dobey’s invitation to dinner, knowing he couldn’t refuse. Dobey would be called immediately if there was a break. And Starsky admitted to himself that he hadn’t eaten anything substantive in days. Coffee and beer, plus an occasional Mars Bar, were his only constants. 

He went to his apartment, cleaned up and drove to his captain’s house at the appointed hour. Cal was away at school and Rosie was at a friend’s so there was no need to be circumspect in what they said to each other. Starsky ate as much of Edith’s delicious pot roast as he could manage, and even finished a piece of lemon meringue pie.

“I just know you’ll find him, dear,” Edith said as she walked Starsky to the door. “Try to have faith. Harold and I are praying for you both.” She handed him a take-home package she’d made up for Babcock and Simmons.

“We’ll take all the help we can get.” Starsky did his best to sound positive. He kissed her cheek. “Dinner was terrific! Thanks!” He made it around the corner before he had to pull to the curb, jump out of the car and throw up in the bushes. He’d start eating again after he found Hutch.

When he got to his place, he gave the bag of food to the also-haggard detectives and went to bed.

How he made it through the following day he didn’t know.

*******

Hutch surreptitiously worked the wire back and forth. He’d managed to get about four inches free and was in the process of breaking it off. Once he shaped it to the form he wanted, he sincerely hoped he hadn’t lost the lock-picking skills he and Jack Mitchell had taught each other in college. 

Deciding to rest for a few minutes, he put his head down. Sleepy would be the guard tonight and he wanted to husband as much of his remaining strength as possible.

*******

“Starsk… Help.”

Starsky awoke instantly. He’d heard his partner’s whispered plea so often in his dreams the last few nights he couldn’t tell what was reality and what was his tormented mind playing tricks. The words echoed from his memory but the voice was Hutch’s.

He had the phone receiver pressed to his ear though and, in the living room, Babcock and Simmons were starting the trace. This call was finally real, not a figment of his sleep-deprived imagination. 

“Hutch…” He could hear shallow breathing on the other end of the line. And what sounded like background snoring. “Where are you, Hutch?”

“Don’t know.” The words were barely audible. Hutch was either trying very hard not to be heard, or he was so weak he couldn’t talk any louder.

“We’ve got the trace going, Starsky,” Babcock shouted. “Keep him talking.”

“Hear that, babe?” Starsky tried to sound encouraging. “Tell me anything you can. Do you hear planes?”

“No… no trains either… or freeways.” Hutch’s words were so soft, Starsky had to strain to hear.

“Probably residential then.” Starsky jumped out of bed, the phone held between ear and shoulder while he stuffed his feet into his Adidas. He’d gone to bed fully clothed every night. “Are you hurt?”

“Not too bad… Thirsty, hungry… mostly. They seem to want me alive… but too weak to fight.”

“Downtown, Starsky,” Simmons hollered. 

“Hutch, listen to me, how’d you get to a phone?”

“Picked the lock on my cage.”

“Your cage.” Starsky swallowed around the sudden tightness in his throat. “They’re still there, right?”

“Yeah.”

“How many?” 

“Six.”

“Is that all?” Starsky tried for facetious.

“Last I counted.” His partner responded in a similar voice.

“Asleep?”

“So far.”

Starsky took a deep breath and steeled himself to ask a tough question. “I hate to do this to you, Hutch, but can you get back into that cage? Before they realize you made this call?”

“I guess.”

“If you put the receiver down so that they don’t realize it’s off the hook, and get back in, they won’t know we’re on our way. Even if they wake up. Can you do that for me?”

“I’ll try.”

“I’m leaving now. Babcock will tell me exactly where you are once I’m in the car.” He picked up the phone and carried it as far as the cord would reach, delaying the moment he’d have to leave his partner’s voice. “I’ll find you, Hutch, I promise.”

“I know. But, hey, listen… There’s a guard dog close by… maybe next door… It sounds vicious…. Be careful, Starsk.”

“I will. Thanks for the warning.”

“Can’t have you getting all chewed up on your way to rescue me.” There was as much humor in Hutch’s voice as he could probably manage.

“Put the receiver down now, Blintz, and crawl back inside. Make ‘em think you’re asleep. That’s me comin’ through the door!”

“I see you.”

Starsky laid the two pieces of the telephone on the floor and bolted out of the bedroom. Grabbing his holstered gun on the way past the coat rack, he shrugged into the straps before slipping his jacket on.

Babcock and Simmons were hunched over the equipment, body language coaxing the machines to work faster. “Between Fifth and Ninth, I think, Starsky.” Babcock said. “We’re narrowing the east-west now.”

“Don’t disconnect!” Starsky was out the door and down the stairs.

*******

Hutch allowed himself to take one deep breath in relief; he’d talked to Starsky and his partner was on his way! Relaxing a little for the first time since his capture, he stretched out among the dust bunnies on the floor behind the ratty sofa. Sleepy was sprawled in the arm chair, snoring loudly. 

With adrenaline slowly deserting his system, Hutch wasn’t sure he had the strength or courage to do what Starsky had asked. He desperately did not want to go back into that space but knew it was necessary. He got to his knees and put the base unit of the phone silently on the end table. Making sure his hand didn’t shake, he lowered the receiver so that it looked as if it was in place. As long as his follow detectives were running the trace, no irritating buzz would sound. 

“Hurry, Starsk.”

As quietly as possible, Hutch crawled across the room and folded his body, feet first, into the kennel. With a sigh of genuine regret for the end of those few minutes of freedom, he arranged the padlock to appear closed. Shutting his eyes, Hutch remembered his partner’s voice. Starsky had sounded tired, worried, strung out, and angry, but most of all, he’d sounded grateful to know, for sure, that Hutch was alive. 

*******

During his race down to the part of the city he and the black and whites had searched, Starsky mentally replayed the conversation with Hutch, starting with those two words that had echoed his own plea years before. Weariness had vanished and cold blooded fury and resolution had taken it’s place. Hutch had come through for him during those twenty-four hours, he’d damned well do the same for his best friend now.

After days and days of futile scouring and interrogating by the entire police department, Hutch, through his own ingenuity and unwillingness to give up, had initiated his own rescue. Now Starsky was on his way to his partner and he didn’t much care who tried to stop him. 

“It’s definitely Sixth Street, Starsky,” Babcock said, over the radio. 

“I’m close.” Streets were nearly deserted and Starsky was pushing the Torino fast, using the mars light to clear the occasional traffic, but no siren. He did not want the bad guys to know he was coming.

“Got it!” Babcock shouted. “Two thirty one! Backup’s on its way. Every possible unit’s rolling.”

“I’m not waiting.”

“Didn’t think you would.” 

“No sirens, Babcock! They’ll kill Hutch.”

“10-4.” 

Starsky hung up the mic and threw the car around the final corner. He pulled to the curb at the end of the two hundred block. “Dammit! I was one street over yesterday!”

The neighborhood was shabby. Only one of the two street lights on the block was illuminated, the other was either burned out or broken. With the help of a quarter moon, Starsky could see that what he remembered of the area was true; yards were weed beds and junk cars plus rusted out pickup trucks were the norm, instead of trees or flowers. It was not an area of Bay City the Chamber of Commerce would want to advertise.

It was, however, an area where a cop could be held prisoner and none of the neighbors would say a word to anyone.

Starsky climbed out of his car, closed the door soundlessly, and crept toward No. 231 on the left side of the street. An old, dark blue panel van occupied the driveway. He stopped abruptly in front of No. 233 and stared at the vehicle. “Sonavabitch! They painted it!” he swore, louder than intended.

A huge mangy dog leaped off the sagging porch and rushed toward him. Starsky drew his weapon and stood still. The animal was brought up short of the cracked sidewalk by a stout chain. Standing stiff legged, neck ruff bristling, it opened its mouth, plainly ready to bark its head off. 

Starsky drilled a look of such fierce anger and rigid determination into its beady eyes, the cur dropped to its belly. Not breaking eye contact, Starsky waited to see what the guardian would do. He was close enough to club it in the head with his gun if he had to. After what seemed like hours but was probably only seconds, it began to crawl back toward the house. 

The sudden mental image of cops descending on the neighborhood, to be greeted by a furiously barking sentinel, made Starsky hurry after the dog. “Listen up, Baskerville.”

The animal got to its feet and, tail tucked firmly between its legs, ran to the porch. Instead of going up the steps though, it ducked through a break in the foundation skirting and disappeared underneath, dragging the chain.

Starsky crouched next to the opening. “I got friends comin’,” he whispered, “and they’re almost as mad as I am. So I suggest you stay in there. And stay quiet!” Hearing nothing from the darkness, Starsky fitted the two pieces of the lattice together, hoping it would keep the critter inside and out of everyone’s way. 

He got up and walked across the yard. A light was on in what was probably the living room of the target house and he crept to the front window. Ragged curtains were drawn but Starsky had no trouble seeing through the wide sun-rotted slits in the fabric. Diagonally across the room from where he stood, an animal kennel held his partner.

Starsky shuddered. If he’d realized how small the damn thing was he’d have had second thoughts about asking Hutch to cram himself back inside. Nevertheless, that’s where his missing half was waiting for him.

The moment Starsky’s eyes lighted on the prison, Hutch raised his head and looked straight at him. Starsky wondered how Hutch could see him, outside, in the dark, through a dirty window and rent curtains. Maybe it wasn’t actually seeing though, he realized, it was _knowing_.

Hutch raised his right hand, fingers spread, before pointing to the ceiling. Starsky understood instantly that five bad guys were upstairs, hopefully still asleep. Next to the window Starsky was peering through, a sixth was dead to the world in a disreputable chair. His snores were loud enough to penetrate the wall. 

Hutch removed the padlock from the cage door’s latch and pushed the screen open. When he pulled himself out of the compartment, Starsky ached to see that his partner had lost weight. And it was obvious, despite what Hutch had said about not being hurt too badly, that he’d been abused. From the way Hutch was protecting his swollen left hand, bones could be broken. 

But the look in those Wyoming-sky-blue eyes told Starsky all he needed to know. His partner was fully aware and ready to do whatever was necessary to effect his own escape and arrest the kidnappers.

Cautiously, experimentally, Starsky pushed upward on the lower sash of the window with his right hand. To his utter shock, it rose smoothly and quietly. Holstering the Beretta, he crawled over the sill and dropped silently next to the snoring guard. He drew his gun again and pointed it at the guy’s nose, pressing his right hand over the mouth. 

Surfacing from sleep, the only thing the perp could probably see was the yawning mouth of the 9mm’s barrel. 

“Not a sound,” Starsky said, very quietly.

The man nodded once.

Starsky pulled the thug onto the floor, rolled him over and cuffed his hands behind his back. Looking around quickly and spotting a kitchen towel on an end table, he appropriated that to gag the supposed watchman. Turning, he locked eyes with Hutch who was crouched in front of his former enclosure, smiling tiredly.

“You didn’t come through the door,” Hutch said, sotto voce.

Starsky scooted next to his partner. Hutch was holding his left hand against his chest, the first two fingers badly swollen, blackish purple, and bent wrong. Both nails were missing. “How long ago?” Starsky nodded toward the damage.

“Three days.” Hutch answered, pain in his voice. “Hope they can save my fingers.”

Starsky put his arm around Hutch’s shoulders and pulled him tightly against his chest. “We’ll get the best hand doc in the country, Hutch. You’ll play the guitar again, I promise.”

Hutch stiffened for a second before relaxing in Starsky’s arms. “I think the cavalry’s arrived.”

Starsky looked over at the window he’d climbed through and saw two uniformed officers peering in at him, holding back the tattered curtains. With a cautionary finger to his lips, Starsky stood up. He squeezed Hutch’s shoulder briefly and moved silently to the front door. 

*******

The arrest of the other five kidnappers upstairs went off without incident, possibly because of the thirty uniformed and plains clothes cops who crowded into the bedrooms. But from their muttered protestations while they were being cuffed and led to squad cars, it sounded as if the gang had only a relatively low-moneyed interest in continuing to keep the legendary BCPD detective confined. Most were tired of the gig. 

*******

In the ambulance on the way to the hospital, Starsky sat on a med kit at Hutch’s head, the fingers of his right hand threaded through his partner’s dirty, sweaty, stringy, glorious blond hair. When Hutch reached his right hand across his chest, Starsky grabbed it with his left.

“I heard you, Starsk.”

“What?” With the screaming siren in his ears, Starsky wasn’t sure he understood what Hutch had said. Tightening the fingers of both hands, he leaned closer. “What did I say?”

“Promised you’d find me.”

“I heard you, too, Hutch. Every time I closed my eyes, you sang to me.”

Hutch nodded. “Words to cling to.”

*******

Starsky waited in the examining room with Hutch, refusing to be ejected. It wasn’t as if anything was being _done_ , after all, he pointed out. Everyone just seemed to be _looking_ at the damage to Hutch’s hand, after they’d come back from X-Ray. 

A technician brought the films and slapped them up into light boxes so that broken bones and dislocated joints could be identified. Non-addictive, at Hutch’s insistence, pain medication was finally approved and injected into one of the IVs that were providing fluids and nutrition.

Two middle aged orthopedic surgeons arrived, studied the x-rays, examined the hand, and consulted with each other in a corner. After a few minutes they spoke softly to the ER doctor, who hurried out. Then they approached Hutch. 

Starsky stood defiantly and protectively on the far side of the table, his hand on Hutch’s shoulder. 

“The swelling will have to be reduced and the infection contained before corrective measures can be performed, Detective Hutchinson,” one of the doctors said. Although the words were serious, his voice was kind.

“Please don’t concern yourself too much though,” the second doctor added. “Ed and I,” he nodded toward his colleague, “have been patching up worse than this since before you were born.”

“Well, maybe not that long, Ralph.” Ed smiled. “But many, many years.” He turned Hutch’s right hand over and appraised the calluses on each finger. “It would appear that you play a stringed instrument.” He looked up at Hutch. “Is that correct?”

“Guitar.” 

“Excellent!” Both doctors said the word, with almost the same emphasis, at the same time. Ed deferred to Ralph. “One of the best exercises possible. After they’re all healed up,” he added, motioning to Hutch’s elevated left hand.

The ER doctor returned and injected a syringe of some clear liquid into an IV line. 

Ralph gestured to what the doctor was doing. “We’ve started you on antibiotics and will use a cold regimen, as well as leeches, to bring the swelling down and remove the accumulated blood.” He met the wide eyes of both Starsky and Hutch. “Yes, gentlemen, the medical profession has known for some time that leeches can be extremely beneficial. Especially in a case such as this.” He glanced at his colleague. “Ed and I are firm believers in the slimy things and your case may help us prove our point.”

“When did you lose the nails, Detective?” Ed asked.

“The day after it happened. They were only attached by tiny pieces of cuticle. I pulled them off.”

“Good that you did,” Ralph said. “Otherwise they could easily have caught on something and made everything worse.”

Ed nodded. “Undoubtedly where the infection gained entrance though. Thankfully, your partner got to you when he did.”

Starsky felt sick to his stomach, seeing in his vivid memory the raw, inflamed finger ends where nails should have been. 

“As I said before,” Ralph went on, quickly, “please don’t worry. Two days from now, even though the course of antibiotics won’t be complete, we should be able to fix you right up.”

“Don’t want to wait any longer before mending those bones and joints,” Ed continued. “Forty-eight hours will also give us time to get fluids and soft foods into you.” A grin creased his weathered face. “Can’t have you croaking on the table ‘cause we didn’t feed you!” 

“Thank you, doctors.” Hutch held his undamaged hand to each of them.

“Yeah!” Starsky reached across Hutch to shake both their hands, as well. “Thanks!”

The surgeons smiled at Hutch, Starsky and each other. Ed threw his arm over Ralph’s shoulders and they left.

The nurse bustled. Two interns transferred Hutch, his IVs and hand/arm support to a gurney. Starsky grabbed Hutch’s right hand and walked along side on the way to the elevator. 

“Get outta here, Starsk.” Hutch squeezed his hand. “Go help Dobey with the interviews.”

“But --” 

“No buts, partner. Nothing’s going to happen here for a couple of days. You can’t do a thing to help them get the swelling down and the infection under control.” He squeezed Starsky’s hand again before releasing it. “Go do what you’re best at. Wrap ‘em up with bows on.”

Starsky sighed, knowing Hutch was right. “I’ll be back to see what Ed and Ralph consider soft food.”

*******

When Starsky got to the station, he discovered that Dobey had assigned the case to Babcock and Simmons but they were getting nowhere. Dobey and Starsky watched each interview from behind the two-way mirror. 

And Starsky was finally eating while he watched. Dobey had ordered burgers and fries from Huggy’s for all his detectives.

“Never met the guy,” Red told Babcock. “Instructions came by phone and we got paid through a money drop.” He shrugged exaggeratedly. “We were only supposed to hold onto the dude, keep him hungry and locked up.”

“For what possible reason?” Simmons demanded.

“No idea. Somebody important had plans but I was never told what those were.” 

*******

When Babcock and Simmons’ energy gave out, Dobey sent them home to get some much needed rest. “You up to taking the last one with me, Starsky? You look pretty done in, yourself.”

“I’m fine, Cap. Just gettin’ my second wind, thanks to the chow.” He bestowed a genuine smile on his beleaguered captain. “I know the guys appreciated the food. Thank you, sir!”

Dobey looked at him askance, shrugged and returned the smile. “You’re welcome.” Together, they entered the interview room where Ronald Hartkins was asleep with his head on his crossed arms. 

Starsky knew, from Hutch’s descriptions while waiting in the ER, that this was Sleepy. The interview went, basically, the same as the others had. Sleepy knew nothing of substance.

“I saved his sweat pants for him,” Sleepy told Starsky. “Washed ‘em real good so’s he wouldn’t throw ‘em away if I got a chance to give ‘em back to him. They’re awful nice quality. Thought he might still want ‘em. Tell him I’m sorry, will ya? I didn’t mean him no harm.” 

Any lingering anger Starsky felt toward this particular member of the gang vanished. He went to the evidence room and, since the item in the sealed bag was obviously of no importance to the case, he talked the clerk into allowing him to sign it out and take it. 

At Hutch’s apartment, he washed the garment one more time, using the natural-smelling detergent and softener Hutch preferred. Afterward, he hung them on a line in the greenhouse, hoping they’d absorb the scent of his beloved plants while they dried.

*******

Starsky tried to keep Hutch’s mind occupied that evening with a condensed version of the interrogations. “Dobey gave the case to Babcock and Simmons. Said I’m too close to it.”

“Of course you are, Starsk.” Hutch’s love was blatant in his eyes and voice. 

“Anyway,” Starsky went on quickly, looking around to make sure no nurses were present, “the boys kept Red and his public defender waiting almost half an hour while they chowed down on burgers and fries from Huggy’s.” 

“Dobey spring for that?” 

“Sure did.” 

“First solid food you’d had in days, I’ll bet.”

Starsky ducked his head. “Well…”

Hutch chuckled gently and ate a cube of green jello.

Starsky dragged up the guest chair with his foot and sat. “What’s the soup de jour? Not clam chowder, I hope.”

Hutch hid a grimace and dipped up a spoonful. “Minestrone. It’s not bad.” He pushed the bowl toward Starsky. “Want to share?”

Starsky pushed it back before patting his stomach. “Thanks, babe, but I’m full.” He grinned. “The burgers were doubles!”

When the nurse came in to collect the tray, Hutch was just starting on the rice pudding dessert. “I’ll come back later.” She began backing out.

“Wait.” Hutch held up his second spoonful. “Can you bring one of these for my partner? Please? It’s really good!”

She beamed. “I think we can manage that.” 

Within minutes, two more servings were delivered to Hutch’s tray table. After the nurse had gone, Hutch scooted over so that Starsky could sit on the bed and lean back next to Hutch, his legs under the tray table, too. 

“The guys’ll come by in the morning to take your statement.” Starsky savored a mouthful of deliciousness. “Umm, this is as good as Ma makes.”

Hutch swallowed the last of his first dish and started on the second. “I hope whatever medication they’ve got me on doesn’t screw up my memory.”

“It won’t.” Starsky took another mouthful. “But if it does, they’ll come back later. Red and his gang ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

Hutch smiled and finished his dessert. 

Starsky stayed, after the tray was collected, and nobody attempted to tell him visitors’ hours were over. Back in the chair next to the bed, he held Hutch’s right hand, stroking the knuckles softly, while Hutch tried to stay awake. Half-way through an ‘Emergency’ rerun, Starsky realized his partner had fallen asleep. He got up and kissed Hutch on the forehead. “See ya in the morning, Blondie.” A second, longer kiss, was laid over the first. “Don’t go anywhere before I get back, okay?” He turned off the TV before he left.

******* 

The next morning, feeling almost rested for the first time in over a week, Starsky arrived at Hutch’s room as the breakfast tray was being taken away. Breezing in, he placed a brightly wrapped package on Hutch’s lap, making sure the box didn’t come anywhere near the heavily bandaged, elevated left hand.

“What’s this?” 

“Open it.”

When Hutch saw what was inside his jaw dropped.

“The guy you knew as Sleepy dug them out of the trash for you. Told Dobey and me the whole story of what happened. He blames himself for you getting hurt because he didn’t let you out of the cage to go to the bathroom. Must have apologized a dozen times.” Starsky gestured toward the package. “Said he ‘washed ‘em real good for ya’.”

“But…I… uh… Where?… How?”

Starsky smiled indulgently, lifted the pants out of the box and shoved that aside. He put the soft material in Hutch’s good hand. “I washed them again in your natural soap. Hung them with your plants overnight, too.”

Hutch raised the garment to his face. “My favorite sweats, and I thought I’d lost them.”

Starsky ran his fingers into Hutch’s soft silky hair. “We’ll think of some way to thank Sleepy.”

*******

Two weeks later, after Hutch had completed his testimony in the Larson case, he and Starsky went to The Pits.

“How’s the hand, Hutch?” Huggy Bear placed three beers on the table in their usual corner booth before sliding onto the bench across from them.

“Getting better every day, Hug.”

“As soon as the splints are off,” Starsky added, motioning toward Hutch’s bandaged hand, “both his doctors say playing the guitar’s the best exercise they could recommend.”

“That’s great!” Huggy held his bottle up in the middle of the table. Hutch and Starsky clinked theirs against it.

“Sure is,” Starsky agreed. “And there’s more good news.” He deferred to Hutch with a tilt of his bottle.

“We got a guilty verdict on Larson,” Hutch said.

“Took the jury exactly thirty minutes,” Starsky crowed.

“Congratulations m’ brothers. That’s one piece o’ slime off the streets for a while.”

Starsky took a swallow of beer, studying their friend. “Now, tell us what you know about Hutch’s kidnapping. I can see a gleam in your eyes, Mr. Bear.”

“Don’t try takin’ this t’ the bank, fellas, ‘cause it ain’t got no bona fides.” Huggy glanced around as if making sure no one was eavesdropping, before continuing. “The hint of a rumor I hear is that Gunther was behind it.”

Hutch nearly choked on his brew. “You’re kidding, right?”

Huggy nailed him with a look that plainly said he was doing no such thing. “You know me better than that, Hutch.”

Hutch put his beer down and wiped his mouth. “You’re right, Huggy, and I apologize. You’d never joke about something like that.”

Starsky put a hand on Hutch’s arm and stared at their skinny friend. “Go on, Hug, what about this hint of a rumor?”

“Gunther’s supposedly got himself a new jailhouse lawyer who’s filed some sort of complicated motion, as well as an appeal,” Huggy explained. “If it’s granted, there would have to be something like another preliminary hearing. Almost the same as going back before the sonavabitch was charged. Hutch would have to testify again.” He looked seriously at Hutch, then Starsky. “Now if Hutch just happened to have… disappeared…” 

“Why not kill me though?” Hutch asked. “Why go to the trouble of keeping me prisoner and running the risk of Starsky finding me, or my escaping?”

“You got me, fellas.” Huggy was apparently genuinely perplexed. “My source says the guys that grabbed you weren’t the most colorful crayons in the box.” 

Hutch glanced at his partner and they exchanged rueful smiles before Hutch looked back at Huggy. “That’s what we thought, too.”

Huggy shrugged. “Or, it could be they didn’t have the stones to do a cop.”

Hutch nodded. “In the conversation I overheard, Red did say he wouldn’t kill anybody.”

“Whatever the reason,” Starsky added, squeezing Hutch’s arm, “I’m glad Jack’s ghost was looking over your shoulder, and you could get to the phone afterward.”

“I’ll bet that was a call to remember,” Huggy said.

Suddenly, Starsky let go of Hutch’s arm and grabbed his uninjured hand. “We gotta get married, Hutch!”

Hutch stared into the eyes he thought he knew so well. There was an intensity in them he’d never seen before. “Uh… uh, what brought this on, Starsk?”

“I don’t ever want you out of my sight, again, babe. Never want to pick up the phone and hear those words!”

“Agreed.”

“If you’re serious,” Huggy interrupted, “I know a defrocked priest who’d be happy to perform the ceremony.”

Hutch looked at the barkeep, stunned. Not only did Huggy seem to know about his and Starsky’s true relationship, he sounded totally supportive. 

Huggy shrugged. “Until the state gets its collective head out of its ass, it’s the only option some people have.”

“Wouldn’t be legal though, right?” Starsky asked.

“‘Course not,” Huggy said. “Not ‘til a law gets passed. I’m just throwin’ the idea out there.”

Hutch looked at the love of his life and saw the same soul-deep devotion and commitment he felt. Without taking his eyes from Starsky’s, he spoke to Huggy, “Ask your friend how soon he can do it, please, Hug.”

The smile that lit Starsky’s face and set his midnight blues dancing melted Hutch’s heart into a puddle of rapidly beating mush.

“I know what song I’d like you to sing that day, Hutch,” Starsky said.

Hutch understood immediately. “We’ll have to wait until my fingers are healed completely then, and I’ve had time to practice.”

“Good!” Huggy broke in, appearing a tiny bit embarrassed at the soapy scene taking place in front of him. “I’m gonna assume you’ll allow me to host this shindig and, if that’s the case, I got a lot of work to do.”

“Take all the time you need, Huggy.” Starsky was still gazing at Hutch. “But as soon as Hutch can play his guitar again, we want to do this.”

“On one condition, Starsk.” His partner’s eyebrows went up in question but he didn’t say a word. “You sing with me.”

“But --” 

Hutch laid two gentle fingers across Starsky’s lips. “Hearing the music in my head all the time I was confined, I composed a descant.” He smiled shyly. “Sort of like the way they did ‘Scarborough Fair’ with ‘The Canticle.’ Two songs in one.”

“Sing it for me, babe,” Starsky urged.

Hutch ducked his head and cast a quick glance at Huggy. “Not here.”

“Soon as we get home then, okay?” 

“Sure. We’ll play the album and I’ll sing the new part. You’ll pick it up in no time.” He smiled into his partner’s glittering eyes. “I think it’ll be perfect for your voice.”

“Bay City’s own Simon and Garfunkel, I presume?” Huggy asked.

“Without any of the arguments and break-ups,” Starsky said, with fervor.

“Partners forever, Starsk,” Hutch promised.

“Forever’s good.” Starsky’s unmistakable joy made those two words sing!

*******

Inspiring song  
becomes a benediction  
for two hearts in tune

 

END

“Bridge Over Troubled Water,” by Paul Simon.


End file.
